#yandere poto

[sunshine-for-serotonin]

My lord i would give you my firstborn for more Erik content, hes literally my babygirl.

Hello my darling!! I decided to do some cuddling headcannons for you as well as some random tidbit headcannons!!! {it’s extremely unorganized} this can be read as any Erik of your choosing, but some specific phantoms are mentioned once or twice!

I’m not super proud of this, but I felt like I had to feed you guys something.

I am not officially back to my full tumblr writing, but I am hoping to make a steady return! Also, I made a Lerik bot on Character.ai if you guys want me to un-private it and post the link. :)

When you cuddle with Erik, no matter which version, you basically have to plan on taking the first or second half of the day off.

He’s very touch starved, so he doesn’t like letting you go unless he absolutely has to, and even then Erik will probably throw a fit of some kind, too desperate for your touch to even think about how it may affect the rest of his opera house.

He’s not ashamed about voicing his need for you either; if you try to leave, he will drop down to his knees and blubber like a child, begging for you to stay and love on him. If it’s a specific person that is causing you to leave, Erik will threaten to kill them! It doesn’t matter if it is the managers, Meg and Madam Giry, or even Christine (should she stay there after the whole final lair scene and the phantoms activities die down)! It doesn’t matter! They don’t matter! The only thing that matters is you and your love! Erik needs you, (Y/N)! He needs you to love him until he can’t think! For you to cuddle him and kiss him like he’s your beloved pet!

Concerning you being friends with Christine, Erik absolutely despises it! She had already abandoned him for the Vicomte, she can’t take you away from him too! She mustn’t! No, if Christine even tried to advise you away from him, he would make sure she wishes she never approached you!

Please, if he starts on one of his tangents about you leaving him for someone else, make love to him and tell him what a good boy he is. It’s a sure fire way to calm him down, and Erik, even though he is likely significantly older than you, loves being coddled and reassured that you won’t leave him.

you will find that almost all versions of Erik prefer to be held rather than just hold you, with the exception of Cherik. It’s not because they’re selfish! It’s because Erik needs you to hold him in order for things to feel okay, and it feels good that you would hold him of your own free will and kindness. If he was the one completely holding you, he would be worried you didn’t actually want to be close to him!

To expand on that a little more, Cherik is the only phantom that prefers to be the big spoon. All the others want you to press against them from behind and wrap your arms around their waist, pressing kisses into the sensitive skin of their neck. {as mentioned in one of my previous posts, Kerik is a horny bastard and will probably start getting hard if you’re not careful.}

Get them to lay on top of you.

Do it. Well… do it if you can handle them crying from emotional release, anyway.

Laying on top of you will give Erik the feeling of maternal care and nurturing he never received as a child, and it’s bound to make him cry from the sheer love he feels for you and the feeling of love you’re giving him, and even then the abandonment issues and childhood trauma just overflows from him like a fountain of sadness.

For versions of Erik where his deformities are a little more open and wet, like Meriks, you’ll have to reassure him that you don’t mind touching it. That the feeling of his open flesh against your skin doesn’t bother you, and that you’d love to cuddle him regardless.

Phantoms with deformities like Meriks are almost always between a rock and a hard place when it comes to cuddling you because on one hand, they’re worried about you seeing their deformities up close and so they’ll want to lay their bad side on your chest so you can’t see it as well. On the other hand, they’re paranoid about you finding the feeling of their deformities gross against your skin and making you uncomfortable.

It’s a lot to unpack when you cuddle Erik, or even give him attention in general, but you will find that it is well worth the effort. Erik loves you and would burn down the entire world to make you smile, and yet he finds himself feeling he is unworthy of even mere scraps of your attention and love, but you always reassure him otherwise. :)

[kuuyandere]

Christine: If I sing for you, will you grant me a favor? Erik: No. Christine: Why? Erik: Because you must sing for love and joy, not for gain. I will grant you a favor regardless of what you do.

— The Phantom of the Opera 1990 miniseries

[persnicketypomelo]

obsession, vampires, supernatural abilities, mentions of biting

Special Halloween series

Vampire Erik Headcanons

Going for a more general approach, but pulling mostly from the book

Erik already exhibits many…nocturnal qualities as it is, even without adding any supernatural elements

He is not all too keen on sunlight; lives far below the opera house in isolation from society; prefers to lurk, unseen, in the dark

His skin is sickly and lifeless, weathered like parchment, and his skeletal frame struggles to fill the clothes he wears

Even in the book, he seems never to need to eat or drink

He even sleeps in a coffin!

If anything, being a vampire makes Erik’s every eccentricity connect naturally

Erik rarely feeds as he prefers to keep to himself in the solitude of his dwelling

But when the need eventually strikes, he makes a great event of it, wandering to the surface at nightfall, selecting his target with deliberation

He generally tries to target those who would not be missed from the world: traffickers, evildoers, the corrupt

Though he is by no means a force of good in any way

The phantom is careful not to drink from those in the opera house

As it stands, his relationship with the workers and management is strained at best, even before the new managers come along

The last thing he wants is to egg even more fools into pestering him and attempting to flush him out more than they already do

But in the case of unfortunate stragglers who wander into his domain of their own volition…

Well, let’s say his policy of not feeding from the members of the opera house can be overlooked in these…extenuating circumstances

When Joseph Bouquet’s body was found, dangling from a rope, curiously, two inexplicable punctures in the side of his neck were present as well

And when it comes to you...

His hands quiver at touching you, not only due to depravity of human contact, but also from a vast, irrepressible desire for your blood

Despite his gaunt frame, his vampiric nature grants him supernatural strength

His hand shudders with restraint, knowing that he could easily break you if he is not careful, knowing that he could lose control if his thirst clouds his reason

I think this version of Erik would be more patient and restrained than the normal iteration of himself

Age and wisdom mellows out his more extreme tendencies

Furthermore, the extreme speed, strength, and hunger means he has had to develop the maturity to curb his emotional outbursts, as indulging them could wreak havoc

Even with all the comparative wisdom this vampiric version of Erik has garnered, he is still so helplessly allured to your youth and innocence

And if you show acceptance and empathy not only towards his physical flaws, but also to his supranatural side...

Needless to say, the Phantom is beyond smitten, harbouring an obsession too fiery and intense to even possibly contain

Being the object of his fixation is even more dire for you with this version of Erik

His heightened senses can easily catch wind of your position, smelling your trail with the ease of a bloodhound

You have no hope of outrunning him, overpowering him, or even the permanence of his death

If escaping the human version of the Phantom seems a nigh impossible task, then it will take a divine miracle to escape vampire Erik

It is best for your own sake that you avoid ever attracting his interest

Else live the rest of your life by the side of an immortal being with no possibility of escape

[cheriihoney]

Remember kids the moon cannot shine light of its own, it always needs the Sun ☀️

Phantom of the Opera au for sunnydayjack and my oc, no actual name but is referred to by jack as moonlight because haha get it- in canon universe he refers to mc as sunshine.

[most-screwed-by-writers-tourney]

Propaganda:

Lucille; I’m sorry, did you SEE her expression when her brother/lover appeared to stab a man to death in front of her because she told him to? That girl was fully ready to take him right there in the snow drifts on the front hall of their literally sinking ancestral manor

[melit0n]

Miasma

- Synopsis: In the halls of the Palais Garnier, a ghost holds a grasp on the minds of almost all those who enter. A ghost, a creature of the imagination of the artists, the superstition of the managers, or, perhaps, a product of the absurd and impressionable brains of the young ladies of the ballet, their mothers, the box-keepers, the cloakroom attendants, or the concierge.

In the glory of the golden auditorium, the burn of his eyes can be easily mistaken for the glare of the calcium lights.

- Oneshot

- Stalker Phantom/Reader

- Word Count: 5.2K

- Warnings: None

- Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50298724

Gracefully, your feet move in carefully practised synchronicity with the fellow members of the soloists, different shades of expensive tulle twirling in time with the orchestra. You were nearing the end of the final, full run-through rehearsal for to morrow's show; a new production long awaited to be displayed to the public.

The choreography was tiring, yet not the worst you had ever done: the repetitive, five to ten hours of practice each day with a ballet master who was unwilling to take anything but utter perfection brought more ache to your muscles than completing your role in the show itself. Yet, even with tired, overworked calves, you continued to strive for the grace and refinement that your teacher had forged into your very bones.

The surge of the orchestra reverberates in your chest, adrenaline habitually coursing through your veins, practice or live show aside. Despite the seemingly endless hours you had spent practising this piece, you still had the innate fear–whispering in the back of your mind–of tripping over your own feet and falling. Or, even worse, crashing into one of the other fast-moving girls, subsequently earning a condescending reprimanding from the ballet master. 

Nothing but perfection. Something hard to achieve with bruised ankles and lungs constricted within a too-tight corset. 

Even with the distinct lack of a large, judgemental audience, the sting of observant eyes burns into your figure. Being a ballet dancer in a prestigious company, with delicately crafted productions showing to the public almost every other day, you were used to the stare of thousands on your figure. 

This, however, was different.

It was an almost eerie sensation; an uncomfortable tingle raising goose-flesh on the back of your neck.

Covertly, you scour the darkened auditorium. In between fast moving limbs, the blurred faces of the orchestra and your fellow dancers, you find nothing but the bright red velour of the thousands of seats and the rich gold of the engraved private boxes. 

You would have left the odd feeling to be the result of nerves, or the watching eyes of the stage director, or even members of the chorus, yet it felt unrelenting. Eyes somehow managing to stay trained on your figure and your figure alone, even through the organised flutter of tulle.

As you pirouette, however, you catch the stare of one of the violin players, shrouded in darkness within the cavity of the pit. 

Ah.

Augustine would laugh at me for my paranoia, you think to yourself.

Regardless, the swell of the orchestra sends a strain through your legs; your muscles pulled taught in anticipation of finally finishing for the day, if not to only repeat it the next.

Finally, the woodwind and strings grow louder, along with the leading soprano, and bring the piece to a finish. You flourish your legs outwards in an arabesque, holding yourself delicately on the tips of your ballet shoes, careful not to wobble. 

Careful not to be considered anything less than perfection. 

Simultaneously, you flinch slightly as the sound of ripping fabric meets your ears.

You can feel the beads of sweat running down your back, soaking into the itchy fabric of your costume. Chest heaving, you hold your position for a few moments before a loud, happy applause erupts from the observers of the final rehearsal. Gracefully, the leading lady bows as members of the chorus and corps de ballet surround her; congratulating her on reaching her notes, as if that wasn’t what she had trained tirelessly her whole life to be able to do.

The glare of the calcium lights burns. 

Eventually, the stage director himself praises your group and, as it has finally struck six pm, calls for the members of the ballet, the chorus members, the orchestra and the leading actors to part and leave for home. You walk, tiredly, off stage right, rubbing the back of your neck. 

You avoid the eyes of the violin player, trying to catch your gaze yet again. 

Squinting in the gloom, you find a large rip on the back of your costume’s bodice. You scowl as you run your hands over the ripped threads, nails plucking the strings of fibre like those of a harp.

A careful hand finds your shoulder, and you look up to see your friend; Augustine. Happily, you smile at her, her clean white teeth smiling back while she tilts her head in question at you. You stand straight and state, annoyed, “My bodice ripped.”

“Good riddance.” She replies sarcastically.

“For the amount of funding the costume department receives, I would have hoped they would make one of the main pieces of our costume more durable-”

“-And less itchy.”

“And less itchy.” You agree. “The costumers are not the ones dancing in those for two hours,” You sigh out as you run your hands over your bodice again, feeling the threads of the expensive fabric and praying, quietly, that the costumers would not ask for payment in fixing it. Considering how close you were to the official show, you have no doubt they’ll be annoyed that you somehow managed to rip it. 

Augustine laughs joyfully at your expense, saying, “Perhaps you should send an official complaint to the costume department, or even-” You huff loudly, already knowing what she was about to suggest, “-The Opera Ghost himself! He’d be sure to scare the costumers into submission, no?”

Laughing tiredly at her jokes, you continue to walk backstage, cautiously avoiding the moving scene–directed by the shouting stagehands above–and passing by your fellow actors. Each are either gossiping, rubbing their fatigued muscles or talking amorously with the sweating stagehands. Though, it is mainly the younger girls trying their luck with the older men. 

“I don’t think I’ve been so tired in my life,” Augustine mumbles.

“Perhaps you are getting old?” You joke back.

“Don’t you even start!” She nudges you harshly in the side, smiling, while you cry out in faux pain. “I don’t think I’ll even be able to walk home. God above knows if I’ll be able to move after I’ve gotten into bed.”

“I wonder if you will fall asleep in our booth after dinner?” You jest. You both had a ritual of going out to dinner, trying a new restaurant for each occasion, the day before performing a new show. While you saw each other every day, you both found it to be a pleasant way to unwind after practice. 

“If I am to afford new ballet shoes and my rent, I think I may have to give dinner itself up for a few weeks.” She smiles a tired smile, one that does not reach her eyes.

“Do not speak so, Augustine. I’ve told you once and I’ll tell you again, if you ever need help with your finances,” You place your hand on her shoulder, “Just say so, and I will be there to aid you.”

You both pause in your walking, and she looks at you with lapis-like hues as she speaks, “I could not–would not–burden you so.” You open your mouth to reprove, but she begins speaking again, “Yet, I appreciate your offer.”

Raising an eyebrow at her, you pat her shoulder empathetically as you intertwine your hands. You walk further into the ever moving and humming guts of the theatre, squeezing up stairs too thin and creaky to be safe and down darkened corridors only illuminated by the dim gleam of the oil lamps not yet put out for the evening. 

Oddly, with each dim hallway you pass, goose-flesh seems to arrive on the back of your neck. As you did during your performance, you chalk it up to a member of the ballet, or the orchestra, silently vying for your attention. That, or perhaps an unfelt draft coming from the cellars.

Now, hidden away from the burn of the calcium lights, your practised facade of expected neatness slowly unfurls. You gently pull out the hair pins keeping your hair in tight buns, wisp like strands following. The tight ribbons that keep your shoes together are also loosened, allowing your feet to finally breathe. Augustine’s are quickly falling apart and, while it wasn’t usual to have them replaced frequently, the price had increased dramatically in the past months. You expect all your fellow dancers–at least those without donations–were beginning to struggle to come up with the money. 

As you do so, many people meander past you; male members of the chorus with bottles of liquor in their hands, hopeful, seasoned members of the corps de ballet, as well as your fellow soloists, and stagehands unhappy with their pay alike.

“What do you intend to do with this month's payment?” You ask, in an attempt to begin conversation again.

“A new-” Augustine begins.

“-Other than the new pair of ballet shoes.” 

She glares at you, half annoyed and half entertained; “A restock of oil and new candles, most likely. Perhaps a new sewing kit. What of you?”

You shrug. “I expect something similar; a restock of oil and possibly some soaps.” She nods, understandably, at your decision.

As you turn past another unlit hallway, your goose flesh arises on your arms now, and you quickly glance over your shoulder to look for anyone in particular, perhaps that violinist. Yet, you find no one. No one but the average crowd of gossiping dancers. 

“Y/N? Are you well?” Augustine stops and looks over her shoulder at you. “Are you looking for someone?” She squints into the crowd along with you, searching the different heads for who you may have been looking at.

“No, I apologise, I just…had an odd feeling.” Augustine looks at you incredulously, before a sly grin makes its way onto her pretty face. 

“Hm…mayhap The Phantom is eyeing you from the shadows…” She shrouds her accent with an ominous tone, the same tone the stagehands place upon themselves when telling ghost stories to the younger chorus members.

“Don’t-”

“-Eyeing his next victim-”

“-Agustine!” You begin to laugh.

“-Waiting for the perfect moment to drag you down into his cellars and make you a part of his bone collection!” She grabs you by your shoulders and shakes you vigorously as you laugh heartily; relieved of your paranoia by her jesting. Easily enticed with mention of the renowned Phantom, some members of the chorus walking past let out a nervous laugh. Expectantly, some even linger or slow their gait to listen in on any gossip about the local ghost. 

Still laughing, your chest aching with both the strain of your corset and the joy flooding out of your mouth, you finally reach one of the many dressing rooms. Your pace had been slowed talking to Augustine, so you find it already full of the other female chorus members and soloists; some already changed, others half nude. 

The dressing room was made of dark, shined oak, and was lit in a lamp-light glow, fire-formed rays spreading like spring petals upon the peeling, ivory-coloured wallpaper of the walls. Multiple wall-length mirrors hang upon them, the glass of them scratched and worn with time and bristling skirts. It’s spartan in comparison to the official, commonplace elegance afforded to a select few of the principal dancers, let alone the dressing rooms of the main actors, yet, it's a comforting place of shared fatigue and tired conversation.

However, once, you visited one of the secondary operatic vocalists in her room, invited to share tea and gossip as she had taken a liking to you. While the only thing she had need to do there was change and perhaps receive the occasional public visitor, she was provided a room that oozed refinement and grandeur. 

The warm lodging contained an intricately designed pier glass, a sofa, a dressing table and a cupboard or two. Along with an astounding number of fresh bouquets, a second floor length mirror lay on the far left. The walls themselves were covered in delicate, floral wallpaper and accented by odd art pieces that appeared to be original.

You’d later learn that while she deeply enjoyed the attention of her older patrons, she tended to take a liking to artists.

Overall, it matched perfectly with the marble palisade that was the Théâtre National de l'Opéra. A complete juxtaposition of the sparse changing rooms you now currently stand in.

Different shades of hats were sat, as per usual, on dress hangers, as well as dull evening dresses. The more expensive, elaborate dresses with long trains were usually kept tucked away until show night, when rich patrons–ring-bearing or not–usually paid visits to the female members of the chorus and troupe of ballerinas.

Reaching your designated changing area, where your own evening dress lay folded neatly upon the wooden bench, you began to converse with Augustine yet again.

“Are you sure you won't join me for dinner this eve?”

Sympathetically, she watches your form from the corner of her eye as she slips out of her costume, reaching around to finally undo her corset, “I am sure, I apologise, you know what it’s like-”

“-Do not apologise.” You sigh deeply as you undo your own corset, letting the warm air of the dressing room fill your lungs. “I will not berate you for wishing to save some extra money.” 

She gifts another warm smile in your direction, before averting her eyes, almost shyly, away from your partly naked form. Aimlessly, she begins to chatter to you about the ache in her calves, and how she believes she’s found yet another ‘life-saving’ treatment for her damaged muscles. Your conversation filters in with the rest of the conversations that flows around the small room, and, half listening to Augustine, you pick up on some of the other’s words. 

In the left corner, a group of girls surround one of the newer members of the troupe of ballerinas, chatting to her with large grins placed delicately on their rosy faces. You spy the glint of gold and the glint of some sort of large gem on her ring finger.

Lucky, you think to yourself, beginning to pull on your chemise and stockings.

In another corner, there are whispered nothings between two girls, one you know to be a young woman named Blanche; a tall thing with peachy skin and hair the colour of a golden sunrise, almost always kept in a tight plat. She looks at the shorter girl, half-dressed, next to her with the same sort of eyes some of the comtes and young vicomtes give to members of the chorus in the parlour.  

You’re pulled back from your people-watching by tumultuous shrieking outside the corridor. Were you not accustomed to the trainee ballerina’s rambunctious shouts after they had finished practice, you would have expected them to have seen a ghost.

Or, rather, the ghost.

A collective sigh resounds in the small room as the noise dissipates down the hall, followed by your own dressing room door opening as three giggling girls enter. Augustine gives you a weary sidelong glance as the pitter-patter of ballet shoes approaches your corner. 

“Hello Mademoiselle L/N, Mademoiselle Charbonneau! We finished practising for Polyeucte this eve!” Lucille, a lithe creature with a button nose and bitten-down fingernails speaks, excitedly.

“Yes yes! Yet we didn’t spot either of you,” Little Jammes begins to moan. She was a favourite of the chorus and existing members of your troupe of dancers, what with her tip-tilted nose, forget-me-not eyes and rose-red cheeks. “You promised you would come watch!”

Before you or Augustine could respond, another voice adds their opinion to the situation; “They couldn’t! They have the performance for the new production tomorrow eve, halfwit-”

“-Don’t insult Jammes so, Elaine,” Augustine reprimands. “I-” She quickly glances your way, “We apologise. Myself and Y/N are quite fatigued; we were not granted a break to day. If we have time, we will watch your practice in the morning on the Monday.”

The younger girls let out a happy cheer at their small success. Elaine and Lucille skip off to where the other apprentices and members of the corps de ballet were changing, while Little Jammes lingers behind.

Nodding to both yours and Augustine’s forms, she says, “I hope your performance goes smoothly tomorrow, mademoiselles.” She begins to turn back to the rest of her group, however, glances at you and speaks yet again; “Oh! And don’t forget your scarf.” She giggles, almost maniacally, before prancing out the door and off to her group.

“Will do, Little Jammes.” You call out after her. She turns and smiles, acknowledging you.

Little Jammes was one fond of jokes, one being stealing your scarf and having you chase her around the Opera House looking for it. A game of hide and seek, if you will. You had kept up the game for almost three years now; her having just turned fifteen. While she was adamant in becoming refined and elegant, as all girls that age are taught to be, she still held onto some of her child-like tendencies with you.

One of the girls, just putting on her bonnet, turns to you as she fixes the ribbons; “I’m unsure how you put up with such boisterous creatures, even Little Jammes; the lot of them are such brats.” She jokes somewhat sarcastically. You smile at her as her eyes, black as ink, look into yours for an answer. 

“It is not much trouble, even if all the majority speak of is the fabled Opera Ghost.” The young lady and Augustine both laugh at your jest. As she finishes with the ribbons of her bonnet, she waves, and wishes you both a good evening. 

Slowly but surely, the girls drift out of the room, some by themselves, and others in larger groups. 

By the time you’re finally fixing your dress, most have left, including the members of the corps de ballet and trainees; eager to leave the domain of the Opera Ghost for the comfort of warm blankets and dinner. Augustine and you are slightly behind schedule, taking extra time to chat aimlessly.

“I cannot believe it takes you so long to dress,” Augustine jests as she finishes buckling her shoes. 

“I know you wish to leave for your apartment Augustine; go. I will walk home on my own to night.” 

Her eyes turn to you, body still bent with her shoes. “Are you sure? Will you be well?”

“Of course I will be. I am a grown woman, Augustine. Either way, I must talk to the costuming department in order for them to fix my bodice; I wouldn’t want to keep you.”

Augustine raises an eyebrow at you, as if thinking this is some test of friendship, before nodding and pulling her shawl across her slim shoulders.

“Good evening, Y/N. Be safe.” She calls over her shoulders as the click-clack of her heels descends towards the exit. “Oh! And I promise to go to dinner with you next week!” She peeks her head over the door frame to call back to you. 

“Sure.” You call back sarcastically. You catch a small smile on her tired face before the sound of the door echoes in the empty dressing room. Finally, you finish dressing, placing your hair into its usual updo again. As you do so, a newspaper, left behind by the young woman of whom you had been talking to, catches your eye. Its newsprint page open on the Opera and Theatre periodical, and a title in bold reads; ‘800 Pounds on a Conserige’s head.’

You recognised the tragedy almost instantly, for it had only occurred but three weeks ago. You were surprised the headline was still making rounds, let alone at the top of the periodical. Although, you suppose, this may be an old paper. Underneath the title shows;

On the evening performance of Helle, May 20th, one of the counterweights for the Théâtre National de l'Opéra’s chandelier fell, suddenly, upon Madame Colette Auclair, aged fifty-six, during her first and last visit to the Opera House; as she passed on impact. Stagehands deny any and all involvement with the tragedy, and report no issues with the counterweights. However, many of the members of the Théâtre National de l'Opéra claim it to be the work of the ever-so-infamous Phantom of the Opera; The Monster of Paris.

You cease reading the moment your eyes graze over the word ‘Phantom’. You felt it ludicrous that an official newspaper would accept and continue to publish such a superstitious and almost mocking piece. Someone’s death shouldn’t be attributed to a spectre that exists and lingers, purely, in the absurd and impressionable brains of the young ladies of the ballet. 

As are the faults of journalism, you suppose.

Sighing loudly, you close the paper and check the date, which reads that it had been re-published not but a week ago. You glare at the bold print while reaching to the hanger for your scarf, and, when your hands find nothing but cold air, you turn.

All you find is an empty hanger. 

How odd, you think to yourself. It was there but a minute ago. Where could it have gone?

You begin to scour the dressing room, before realising what Jammes had hinted at beforehand. Yet, you frown. How could she have gotten in while you weren’t looking? Even if you had been distracted reading the paper, you would have most definitely heard the loud creak of the un-oiled door.

Eyes searching methodically around the room, you finally spot the hue of your scarf peeking out from the ajar dressing room door. The tassels lying, spread, across the scuffed wood of the floor. 

Sighing yet again, you call out for Jammes, who you still swore had left long before you had, and begin to walk across the room. 

I don’t know if I’ll even have time to visit the costumers at this rate. I can never remember how late they stay into the evening.

The heels of your boots send a resounding click-clack across the now bare room. As you near the door, you crouch ever so slightly; haunches rising like a cat ready to pounce on its prey. 

“Jammes…” you mumble out with a smile growing on your face, slowly reaching out to grab your scarf, preparing for a tug of war with a giggling ballet girl, before your scarf zips out from beneath the pads of your fingers. 

You scoff, surprised, before peeking your head out of the doorway, like some weary animal, and looking down the left hall. Innocently, your scarf sits at the end of it, hidden partially around another corner.

Mocking you. 

It was unusually silent. You didn’t hear a laugh nor giggle come from the teasing girl. Glancing down the other hall, you keep watch for the lamplighter. 

You hear no steps echo against the wood and stone. You surmise he has not arrived yet.

Softly, you step out of your dressing room and begin walking down the hall to your beloved scarf. 

The oil lamps send shadows down the hall, long, gangly ones that claw at the hem of your dress as you walk forward. Long, gangly ones that you swear whisper in the dark of the halls. Whispers that sound much too like your fellow dancers, asking for you to follow them.

“Jammes?” You call out into the moving mass of darkness. 

No reply. 

Yet again, as you creep closer to your prize, it is pulled away from your grasp; spirited away and down another ill-lit hallway. 

“Jammes,” you whine, quietly. “This is not funny Jammes. I have to go see the costumers before they leave for the evening.” Despite your worries and growing annoyance, you still follow your scarf down hallway after hallway. Ones you find lead deeper into the Opera House, down passages you were sure were only touched by stagehands. Down routes that only the spiders and their webs called home. 

Quite admittedly, you begin to grow afraid. Afraid of both the dark and the odd whispers that you pray are simply the evening wind whistling. The gossip of the corps de ballet begins to catch up to you too, murmuring descriptions of a man, a monster, with the body of a corpse; skin rotting off his own bones and the Night itself hiding in the sockets of the ghost’s skull. 

Perhaps you are just as paranoid as the brats of the corps de ballet. 

Augustine would laugh at me for this, you repeat as your scarf slips out from under your fingers yet again. Just wait until I tell her this to morrow morning.

Eventually, you find yourself in a dank hallway deep in the Opera House, near the storage room for all the set pieces, you suppose. 

Jammes must have been dared down here by her friends at least once, you reason with yourself.

A trapdoor, locked, sits to the left of you, a bit further up the hall. The wood of the floors let out a cry with each step you take; bending around your feet. You fear it may snap from right under you. 

“Jammes!” You call out frustratedly. You had spent twenty or so minutes travelling down into the depths of the Opera House for a mere scarf; you could have spoken to the costumers and been on your way home by now! Typically, your cat-and-mouse chase with Jammes only lasts ten or so minutes, for her mother calls on her before she can go too far. You were tired and frustrated, with fear building up in your dry throat.

As you begin to turn yet another corner, one you would suppose would lead down into the storage rooms and the vaults of the opera, you are met with pitch black itself. It was as if there was a wall of night standing before you; a mirror reflecting a pitch-black sky you couldn’t see.

Out of the void reaches a white, silken gloved hand, holding your scarf, and your scream echoes loudly in the empty hall like the first chords played in a silenced auditorium. Your hand immediately goes to your chest, to squeeze your thumping heart into submission as your lungs heave for the air they can’t seem to inhale fast enough.

“Apologies, Monsieur, I…” You try to catch your breath, incomplete thoughts rushing through your brain. “...I did not see you.” 

He wears the type of expensive glove that only those who visit the Opera House and its members wear. Clean, white as pure as a dove’s wing, and well made. Immediately you question, mentally, what someone of supposed high status is doing so deep in the belly of the Opera House, especially since there had been no public show today. Further, if Little Jammes is nowhere in sight, then is this who has been leading you around the Opera House with your scarf? Or, perchance, has Jammes given your scarf to him in order not to get caught?

He speaks not a word; you do not even hear him breathe. Your nostrils are met with a terrible stench as a breeze ascends from under the trapdoor and behind the man, sounding more like agonised cries than wind. Mould, stagnant water and…and death. The type of miasma that lingers in your apartment when a trapped animal passes in the cage of your walls; rotting to dust. 

Rotting. Rotting flesh. Rotting flesh pulled taught against bones like a drumhead. A horrible image infiltrates your fatigued mind. 

You are unable to see a single inch of him other than his silk-covered hand, the beginning of his clean, nicely dyed overcoat and of course, your scarf. In the dim lighting, his hand seems to be trembling, as if holding a tremendous weight. Let alone the grip he seems to have on your scarf; the fabric wrinkling under his fingers. Despite him holding it out for you to take, the grip he holds onto it with makes it seem he almost wishes not to let go. Conditioned by years of interacting with the higher class, your mouth immediately goes to asking on his well-being.

“Are you well, Monsieur?” You whisper emphatically. You’re sure he can hear the fear laced in his voice. Considering the habits of the other patrons, you wouldn’t be surprised if he finds amusement in it.

The hand reaches further outwards with your scarf, and makes a motion for you to take it. You stand there, between the stagnant air and the man, looking back and forth between your scarf and where you believe his eyes to be. 

You look at him with an uncertain stare, before gently reaching out to take your scarf. You approach this like you would approach a wild animal; with slow movements, and careful eye contact. Cautiously, your hand meets the soft fabric of your scarf, as well as the coolness of his gloves. 

A shudder seems to run up his arm, and you’re half sure he flinched from your touch. Yet, your scarf remains in an iron-grip, despite your light tugging. 

Again, you squint into the void, trying to find his eyes in the dimness of the oil lamps. “... Monsieur?” You mumble, even quieter than before, with an increasing amount of panic in your voice. As if suddenly remembering he’s holding your scarf, he jolts, yet again, and releases it. 

Yet, his hand still lingers in the air.

Wrapping the scarf around your neck, you can almost feel his eerie gaze following your hands as you do so. His hand still floats, trembling in the air. It almost seems like he wishes for you to take it. Take it and follow him into the vaults of the opera house. 

Take it and make you a part of his bone collection. 

You waft the idiotic thoughts away from your head with a swift movement of your hand, disguised by pushing the ends of the scarf behind your back. 

Idiotically, with worry entangled in your movements, you reach out for him again, gingerly placing your hand on his upper arm. A shiver of your own rattles through you, like a cold finger caressing your spine. The pads of your fingers find the expensive threads of his overcoat, and, dear Lord, he is so cold. Even through his coat, you can feel the wintery burn of his skin. He was so bony; ever so skeletal. With such a gentle touch, you felt as if you could crush the bones of his arm. 

Something between a gasp and a sob quickly escapes his mouth, regardless of the distraught tone he held, he manages to sigh with perfect pitch and time. 

“Forgive me-” Taking a step backwards, you apologise immediately, but you’re met with the quick swish of fabric through the dank air as another foul-smelling wind arises from the trapdoor. It flutters through your hair and causes a chill to settle in your chest. It curls up around your lungs and heart and makes every breath difficult.

Your scarf does nothing to keep you warm. 

Most of the dimming oil lamps are quickly blown out by the strong gust, and the little you could see of the man is engulfed by the darkness. 

One oil lamp remains, barely lit, behind you. 

Quickly, you step backwards until your back hits the wall, and you reach for the lamp. Unhooking it, you bring it forth to the hall, thrusting it outwards into the void. 

There is nothing there other than lingering dust. 

Another gust of wind arises, and quickly puts out the lamp. As you now stand in the dark, a cacophony of whispers erupts upon the cold wind.

He’s here, The Phantom of the Opera.

----------------------------

I had an unbelievable amount of fun writing this. I'm sorry if this doesn't read completely right; I was doing my best to imitate Gaston Leroux's writing, since I wrote this for Leroux!Phantom rather than Musical Phantom (or any other phantom for that matter). Further, I apologize to any possible ballerinas reading this, for I know the terminology Google and some ballet Tumblr blogs gave me may be incorrect.  I know there isn't that much actual Phantom interaction, but I wanted to focus on the more creepy and touch-starved version of him. I'm thinking about doing a series of Phantom one-shots, hence why I'm leaving this as 'incomplete'. Either way, thank you for reading <3

Historical Notes:

- Calcium Lights = Another word for limelights.

- Théâtre National de l'Opéra = The name given to the Palais Garnier from September, 1870 to January, 1939. 

- Pier glass = A mirror that is placed on a pier, i.e. a wall, between two windows supporting an upper structure. Generally used to fill the space between the windows.

- 800 pounds on a Concierge's head = An actual headline written by Gaston Leroux himself. On May 20th, 1896, a performance of the opera Helle was underway when a counterweight, one of multiple that held the chandelier up, broke loose and fell through the ceiling; killing a Concierge on her first (and last) visit to the Palais Garnier, which inspired the falling of the chandelier in Phantom! Forensic investigators later said a nearby electrical wire probably overheated and melted the steel cable holding up the counterweight, causing its fall, yet, for all the superstitious opera workers, it was said to be the famous Opera Ghost. The name used for the concierge is made up. 

[male-yandere-tournament]

Final Round.

[crushingcasanova]

Another POTO mood board! Expect a lot more of these in the future. Still taking some requests, especially theater related ones.

[the-leech-lord]

🎼Erik Destler Stimboard🎼

🎹🎹🎹|🎹🎹🎹|🎹🎹🎹

Day 6 of cringetember stimboards - Yandere

Erik’s the OG yandere lol X3

[picklepie888]

All of these characters are, by definition, yanderes.

[kotaka-kun]

200 words a day for the month of May - day 21

200 words of... smth for dark week? idk yet

warnings for bruising (hickies), implied sex (R/C), possessive behavior (on Erik's part obv)

And then he saw it -- the spots of bruising at the base of her throat, once hidden now made plain as the powder had rubbed off.

Even Erik, as denied as he was in the joys of the flesh, knew what such markings were, knew the kind of behavior led to them, and for a moment, he could not draw breath.

Christine had said she'd seen her vicomte over the weekend, had she not? That she had been invited for tea.

She had averted her gaze from his when she'd told him, and he had -- perhaps foolishly -- assumed that it had only been because she was embarrassed as she was aware that Erik was not overly fond of the vicomte.

But now it was clear that she had been unable to meet his eyes because she had done unspeakable things with him -- things she did not want Erik knowing of. Why else would she go through such lengths of attempting to hide such marks from him?

His breathing became shallow.

Had she not pledged herself to him? To his music?

He could not help but feel as though he was about to lose her.

If he had not already.

"Erik?"

[sunshine-for-serotonin]

Forever and Always, You.

Happy Valentine’s Day!!!!! I’m in the mood for Erik cuddles, anyone care to join me?

Before reading please note: non sexual nudity, Erik calls reader mommy, non sexual breast sucking, just the smallest bit of angst, Leroux!Erik(full facial deformity, no nose, talks in third person sometimes)

You weren’t really sure what had gotten Erik so worked up, what had driven him to act so irrationally as you conversed with the theatre crew and management of the opera populair, what had driven him to attempt to kill Christine as she ran her hands over your form to straighten up your uniform and gently brush away a few hairs from your face.

The silence that had fallen over you all after the sandbag had plummeted to the ground was deafening, and with the gaze of shock and fear Christine had fixed upon you, you realized the sandbag had fallen a mere two inches from her figure. Looking up into the rafters, you saw Erik glaring at Christine with the fury of a thousand suns, and you knew that he truly had meant to kill without remorse. Turning his piercing gaze towards you, you could see the lines around Erik’s eyes soften, his gaze so tender you struggled to believe that this was the same Erik that had just tried to murder your friend, the girl who had once held his affections. …You would wait too talk with him until after rehearsal.

Approximately three hours later, after suffering through Erik’s loving stare relentlessly fixated upon you, you found said man waiting for you in the shadows of your room. Practically tripping over his own two feet to reach you, Erik only halted his approach when you held up your hand and sent a frustrated look his way.

“What do you think you’re doing, Erik?”

“I…I was hoping we could embrace each other, and- and rest for a spell.”

You could tell Erik knew you were upset with him. It was obvious in the way his skeletal frame shook, and in the way his voice stuttered and wavered. Erik clutched his fingers close to his chest and curled in on himself slightly, fighting the urge to embrace you and relax into your form, the urge to ask you for reassurance when he knew what he pulled earlier had upset you deeply.

Seeing as though Erik was on the verge of tears, you allowed some of the warmth to seep back into your voice.

“Come lay down with me, Erik.”

As you made your way to lay down on your bed, you removed your layers of clothing until you were completely bare. You could hear Erik copying your actions, and occasionally tearfully sniffling, before scrambling after you. Once you made it to your bed, you peeled back the covers and laid propped up on pillows.

“Come here, baby.”

As soon as Erik got on top of you, the dam broke. Tucking his face into the crook of your neck, Erik held you like a child would a beloved teddy bear, his tears soaking into your warm skin as he trembled and shuddered with ragged breaths.

“Erik’s so sorry, mommy! Please, forgive your poor beast! Please don’t stop loving Erik! Erik’s so sorry, so sorry!”

“Shhhh, shhh, it’s okay babydoll, I’m here, I’m here, I’m here. Im here with you, when you’re ready to talk, we’ll talk, okay?”

Your words only made Erik sob harder, and at this point he was trembling so much he was moving you with him. Slowly, you began to trace along Erik’s spine with one hand while the other carded through his hair. No longer was Erik simply sobbing, but he was full on wailing into your figure, tightening his arms around you further and shoving his cold mask deeper into the crook of your neck. Moving your hands to try and push back Erik’s figure to get him to look you in the eyes, you were met with resistance as he gripped you like a vice and more pitiful tears fell into your hair.

“Non, non, non! Please! Erik’s so sorry, maman! Don’t leave!”

“I’m not going anywhere, Erik, I just wanted to see you. Can you do that for me?”

Shuffling his form against you slightly, Erik moved his face until he was peering up at you from your chest, his yellow eyes puffy with tears from behind his mask.

“May I take this off, darling?”

Stiffly nodding, Erik closed his eyes. It was a habit of his, always dreading that he may see a look of fear or disgust reflected in your eyes, but he reminded himself that you had never once given any truth to his fears. Gently, your fingers curved around the edges of Erik’s mask before lifting it from his visage.

“There you are, pretty baby. You’re being such a good boy for me.”

At your words, Erik let out soft whimpers before opening his eyes once more, tears still cascading down his sunken cheeks. Pressing kisses to his forehead, to in between his eyebrows, down to his nasal bone, and finally to his lips, you could practically taste his desperation for your love and approval. Erik let out dissatisfied whines as you pulled away, only to relax into you once again as you cupped his cool face with your warm hands.

“M-more kisses, please, maman! I need more! Please, maman!!”

Smiling softly at Erik, you gave him two more kisses, one on his crooked lips and one on his forehead, before speaking.

“Are you ready to talk about earlier now?”

Shamefully, Erik averted his eyes from yours, but still nodded his head. Shifting himself once more, Erik pressed his ear to your chest and took deep breaths, the sound of your heartbeat combined with your scent soothing him and easing him into sharing his emotions with you.

“Why did you try to hurt Christine, Erik?”

“…she was too close to you.”

“Oh?”

Nodding his head, Erik struggled to find the right words to express all his pent up emotions, the gentle feeling of your fingers running through his hair helping to keep him grounded.

“I had feared that she may try to take you from me, or that you may find my company unappealing in comparison, a-and I thought-”

With a small sigh, you realized Erik was beginning to sob once more, his sentence punctuated by hiccups and sniffles as his nasal cavity leaked uselessly. You pressed a few kisses to his head to soothe him as you prepared to speak.

“Shhhhhh, you’re getting yourself all worked up over nothing, babydoll. Have I ever given you a reason to think I was going to leave? Hm?”

“N-non…”

“So why are those silly thoughts going in your head, sugar?”

“Because Erik doesn’t deserve you! Because you’re too good for Erik, but Erik craves you and your love so terribly! So terribly that he would kill another just to keep you!”

The salty tears multiplied as Erik bawled into you, the scorching thoughts he had tried to ignore bursting to the surface. The fingers that he gripped your back with were beginning to dig into your skin, causing mild discomfort, but you paid it no mind and focused your attention on calming your darling.

“Oh honey, let it all out. Sh, shh, shhh, good boy. You’re being so, so good for me.”

Your words seemed to have the intended effect, and slowly Erik resumed his steady breathing and his heartbeat stopped racing so erratically.

“Erik, baby, listen to me carefully, ok? You are enough for me. You always have been, and you always will be. You don’t have to try and ‘earn’ or ‘deserve’ my love, you have it already, you silly man-” Pausing, you made him look at you as you cradled his face in your hands. “-I love you, Erik, and nothing will ever change that. Forever and always, I will choose you.”

“(Y/N)-” his voice quivered with emotion “-je t’aime! Thank you for staying with me, I love you, I love you, Erik loves you so much!”

Eriks lips moved forwards and captured your own, softly moaning with contentment. Again and again, Erik surged forth and kissed you until he was breathless, and you couldn’t suppress a giggle at the lovestruck and dazed expression on his blushing face.

“Did you still want to nap, Erik?”

“Oui, if it’s alright with you and-,” if possible, Erik turned even redder. “-may-may I put my mouth on your chest? Please, maman?”

“Of course, babydoll.”

Immediately, Erik gave you another kiss before moving his mouth down towards your chest and taking your nipple in between his thin lips. As you rested one of your hands on his back, the other cupped his marred face while your thumb stroked his prominent cheekbone, and you could feel Erik practically become liquid in your hold as any remaining tightness drained from his body. Setting a slow pace, Erik began to gently suck on your chest as he felt his eyes go half lidded, being worn out from his emotional outburst. Just before sleep overtook him, Erik could hear you whisper faintly.

“Forever and always, I’ll choose you, babydoll.”

———————————————————————————

@sloppyzengarden

[kuuyandere]

"The world up there is unfit for one such as her. Up there is where Hell is, and I will not send an angel to Hell."

— Erik, The Phantom of the Opera 1990 miniseries

[persnicketypomelo]

what do you think would happen if, say, book!Erik was in one of his breakdowns and instead of just dealing with all his self loathing and sobbing, reader just… picks him up? I don’t think he would weigh that much, with him being so skeletal and all, and so the only thing would be his height making it kind of physically awkward. I dunno, I think that he might have one of those reactions like when people throw cheese on babies heads when they’re crying, but also I think he would be like “is this???? Affection????!!” hah!

I felt like this was fitting for Valentine's

mentions of kidnap, obsessive tendencies, mentions of murder

Carrying the Phantom

To say he would be caught off-guard would be an understatement

Not only that you are lifting him, but the bold display of your affection as well

I feel like this would be his one moment of true shock--where he's truly doesn't know what to do

Only when you lay him down on the loveseat to rest his head on your lap does he regain his senses

Clutching the fabric of your clothing to his face, relaxing completely around you for the first time

While you stroke his head, he will murmur in words half rambling and half meant to be heard of how much he loves you, how you are his muse

His love for you was no lesser before, but I think this might be the first time he ever truly lowers his guard around you

If he kidnapped you and forced you into living with him, then he would have obvious reservations at all moments that you might be vying for escape

But even if not, he holds an overarching belief that he is not worthy or capable of being loved and having a normal relationship, that you don't truly want to be with him

Be warned though, the first time he experiences the utter bliss of being defenceless and being cared for, he will vie for your attention and admirations very frequently

Hoping to receive your praise and affections, but too guarded or shy to openly express it

I think his behaviour would be similar to seeking validation for his appearance: trying to catch your eye and trying to impress you with his musical capabilities

For his part, he would definitely enjoy singing gentle melodies as you drift off to sleep

And his music would be the primary way he communicates his love for you, since he is both isn't accustomed to expressing his love in more direct manners

Even if he appears averse to physical affection (though this is not truly the case) know that you are the inspiration for all his compositions

Erik despite his soft vulnerability in these moments, still has a possessive streak within him that will take significantly more time to undo

He is, after all, an experienced murderer

That is to say, perhaps no twisted act is out of the picture when it comes to love

[most-screwed-by-writers-tourney]

Propaganda:

Yul: He was ostracized and bullied for his girly looks, and then he met Sian, who was not only unafraid of him despite being scared of men, she saves him from his bullies. They start dating, and he becomes more and more possessive and controlling over her, to the point where he plans to get her abusive mom to attack him so Sian can leave her, without telling Sian. She understandably breaks up with him, but then he ends up locking the two of them in a shed overnight, causing her to have a panic attack, and eventually be so traumatized she completely forgets him. Now we get to the actual main story, where after he finds her again, he disguises himself as a girl to get close to her and win her over. He ends up trying to kill himself in front of her after attacking her boyfriend, but survives.

[melit0n]

MASTERLIST.

Call of Duty:

⋆☀︎. Knock Knock (let me in) -> König x reader (oneshot)

⋆☀︎. Half-Starved -> Ghost x reader (oneshot)

Phantom of the Opera:

⋆☀︎. Miasma -> Phantom x reader (oneshot)

Sleep Token:

⋆☀︎. Oh warm, distant June -> Vessel & Sleep (oneshot)

OC works (not x reader):

⋆☀︎. Farewell to Providence -> Knowledge and Brutus

⋆☀︎. Rising Waters -> Knowledge and Brutus

OC works (x reader):

⋆☀︎. Delicate Is The Flesh -> Yan!demon OC x reader (fic):

Prologue

Chapter one: For Whom The Bell Tolls

Chapter two: Corvus and Krater

Chapter three: Belly of the Beast

Chapter four: Something Forgotten

Chapter five: Citrus and Cinnamon

Chapter six: Mumbling Conscious

Chapter seven: Heavy is The Head that Mourns The Past

Chapter eight: Be Not Afraid

╰┈➤ Links:

⋆☀︎. Ao3

⋆☀︎. Quotev